scars
by agentcalliope
Summary: not all her scars come from fire (Riza Hawkeye looks in the mirror, and sees her story etched on her skin)
1. small

A/N: Chapters are to be posted once a week. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

She's twenty seven years old, and she's alone.

The hospital bathroom is small, the steam from the shower coating the space with a fog. Riza tightens the towel around her again and raises an arm to wipe the condensation from the mirror.

It's hard to swallow. It's hard to breathe.

It's hard to look at herself in the mirror when the woman staring back has so, so many scars.

There, on her palm, white line cutting across calloused flesh.

There, on her forehead, near her hairline, thin but sharp.

There, on her back, deep red and angry, marring black ink and pink skin.

There, on her cheek and wrists, arms and legs, stomach and chest.

And, on her neck, the white bandage protecting, and hiding, she is sure there will be a scar, too.

Not all of them come from fire.

She's seven years old, and she's alone.

Riza takes a deep breath before she reaching above her, hands grasping on the branch. Pulling from above, and pushing from below, she manages to climb. Another breath, another branch. She ignores how her uneven hair plasters to her forehead, squints against the light, grits her teeth, and doesn't stop until she reaches the top.

Riza takes a deep breath. Inhales, exhales. Above, soft clouds float in the sky. Below, the water on the lake twinkles and shines. The mountains in the distance stand firm against the wind, while the trees sway.

The breeze is kind to her, rippling through her clothes and against her sweaty skin. With one arm still clutching the trunk, Riza combs her fingers through her hair, and imagines she could stay up here forever.

Up here, she's still seven years old, and she's still alone, but she feels _small_.

Around her, the world seems so bigand whole and _full._ Open to millions of possibilities, and that being and feeling small isn't so bad. She likes feeling this kind of small. Every time she's climbed this tree she's suffered through blisters and bruises, the shortness of breath. She stands at the tip, hears the wind whisper and the sun speak, and feels very, very small.

She can imagine staying here forever.

She wishes she could.

(but she always must come down)

Riza's only seven, alone, and this is how it happens:

She's almost on the ground when she hears the branch crack beneath her feet, and realizes that she's falling before she feels herself drop. She reaches out and her hand finds purchase on the splintered branch, but it's not enough, and she falls to the earth with a shout, and a resonating _thud_.

The sky is still blue, with wisps of clouds. Riza watches from the ground, arms and legs spread, and struggling to regain her breath.

Her head pounds, her body aches, and her hand throbs. Slowly, Riza turns to look at her right palm, and sees it coated with blood. She squeezes her eyes shut, lets herself lie on the ground, just for a moment.

Listening, waiting.

She only lets herself wait so long before she opens her eyes, forces her body to stand up, and limps away without so much as a whimper.

There is blood on her shirt from where she wrapped her hand, and she wonders how she's going to be able to wash it out.

The stains spread, and she realizes that the cut hasn't stopped bleeding, and she unfurls her fist and groans from the sight, and the pain. The wound needs stitches. Riza's old enough to know that, as she dabs at it with a wet cloth. The jagged line running across her hand doesn't stop bleeding, and she swallows the panic rising in her throat.

The door creaks opens.

Riza swivels around, eyes wide. A looming figure ambles in, shaggy hair masking his face. She takes a step back and hides her hand behind her back. She presses herself against the wall, looks down at the floor and doesn't say a word as the man grabs some bread from the counter, and refills a mug with beer.

She makes the mistake of looking up before he's gone. He standing in front of her, and brown eyes meet brown eyes, and as quickly and quietly as he's come, he leaves, and leaves Riza standing there in the kitchen.

Bleeding.

Alone.

This is how it goes. This is how it's always been. Because even at seven _fucking_ years old, Riza Hawkeye knows better than to ask for anything from her father. She grabs her needle and thread from the drawer, the rest of the beer, and a wooden spoon.

Sitting on ground next to the empty fireplace, she pours the beer onto the needle, and her palm. Bites down hard on the spoon, threads the needle carefully, and tries to still her trembling fingers.

If she's old enough to know she needs stitches, then Riza figures she's old enough to do it herself.

That night, out her window, she cannot see any stars. Without the stars, she doesn't feel so small, and the world doesn't seem so big.

Riza cradles her bandaged hand to her chest and tells herself that the way he makes her feel small is not the way it should be. She doesn't like this feeling of small. It's not like when she looks at the multitudes of stars, or when she's on top of her tree. Feeling small when he makes it so, is different. Crueler.

But it isn't his fault. He couldn't have noticed the splotches of blood on her shirt, or the way she hid her hand behind her. The way she shook from pain, and fear when their eyes met. He didn't see anything like that, and that's why he didn't do anything. Father just saw her in the kitchen and didn't notice that anything was wrong.

Besides. He can't worry about her when he has to worry about his research. She knows this, accepts it.

Riza Hawkeye is seven years old, alone, and never climbs a tree again.


	2. promises

As soon as she's allowed, she goes outside.

She goes outside, and she promises the doctors that it'll only be on the hospital grounds, and Riza Hawkeye always keeps her promises. But what she doesn't tell them—what they don't necessarily need to know— is that she has Kain bring Hayate to the garden, and together they run and play until her allotted thirty minutes are up.

It is this, with Black Hayate trotting at her feet, the air cool against her skin, that makes Riza almost believe that everything's the way it should be.

(Almost. Because _he's_ not there, walking slightly ahead of her, on her right. Because Riza cannot change the fact that for thirty minutes while she's out here, in the light—he is in there, in the dark. Because although she's asked him again and again to come out with her, just to sit and listen, he's blankly stared at her, smiled, and has said: _maybe_.)

Maybe.

She is only allowed to go outside to do the laundry, or go to the well.

And the market: the beautiful, marvelous market. With all its spices and goods and people and _freedom_. By Saturday, the pantry is bare and the icebox empty, and she goes to bed feeling just as hollow. But come the next day, when she gives Father the last of the bread and milk for breakfast, he gives her a thousand cenz, and by the time she returns he is ready for lunch, and she has the means to prepare it.

And she has something to eat as well.

Today— today is different. Father woke her up early, and made her promise she would go to the market and get something good to make for supper, and Riza Hawkeye always keeps her promises. The position of the sun against the sky tells her that it's past noon, and her basket is laden with food as she walks home.

Riza knows what this means, what this day will bring. She frowns, kicking at a stone that's strayed onto the dirt path.

Her father's getting a new boy, and she had hoped that the last one would be the _last_ one. She's never liked any of his boys. They're always older than her and _meaner_ and never leave her alone, especially when she asks.

(She's used to being alone. It's familiar. It's comfortable. She knows she can handle with being alone.)

And she is alone now, dragging a heavy basket along a country pathway, when she trips and falls, and the food from the basket spills all over the ground.

Taking a deep breath, Riza gathers the sausages, the bread. Dusts off the apples and pears and blows on them, gently placing them back. Ignoring the stinging pain from her knee, she gets back up, hoists the basket onto her shoulder, and stumbles home.

She refuses to look down.

(She's afraid of what she might see)

By the time she arrives, setting the food on the counter and closing the door shut behind, Riza sees that her leg is stained with red. She quickly pulls out some clean cloth from the bin and wraps it around her knee, deciding that it must wait because her promise can not.

Once dinner is ready, and she hears her father's voice, just outside the house, and she scurries up to her room where she is supposed to be.

She's sitting near the fireplace, mending her father's socks when the door creaks open and she hears unfamiliar footsteps approaching.

There's a boy. Another boy. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a book already tucked under his arm.

"Hello," he quietly says. "My name is Roy Mustang."

She pauses, then returns her attention to sewing the tattered sock. She had promised her father, after all, that he would have it by the morning. "Hello Mr. Mustang."

A laugh. "Please. Call me Roy."

"No." She repeats, forcefully. That was another promise she had made, too. "I must call you Mr. Mustang, sir."

For a moment, there is only the crackle of the fire, the heat of the flame.

And then the boy-Mr. Mustang- clears his throat. "Oh, okay. What should I call you, then?"

She turns and blinks at him.

"You said that you must call me Mr. Mustang," he answers her silent question. "So, what should I call you?"

She's been 'girl', and 'daughter' and 'you'. _Riza_ is what she whispers to herself at night, looking up at the stars, feeling small. She's never had someone ask her something like that, before. Ever. And she doesn't know how to feel, what to say.

So she doesn't say anything at all.

"Ah, sorry. You're busy right now. I should probably leave you alone."

Mr. Mustang turns to leave when his eyes shift to her leg, to the redness of the cloth wrapped around, and he grimaces.

"That looks like it hurts. Take care of it, yeah?"

Riza wants to laugh. Of course she should take care of it. Of course she would take care of it. It's not like she has anyone else that would.

Without knowing why, she promises she will, and returns to piecing together her father's sock.

Riza Hawkeye always keeps her promises.

Or she tries to, at least. Because after a couple of days, despite cleaning it and covering it, the wound is pusing, and pulsing, and gross. Riza wonders how at six years old she can stitch a wound and be okay, but at eleven it's a simple, _stupid_ stumble that does her in.

She hides, and hides it, from her father and his new boy and continues keeping _most_ of her promises.

"I thought you promised you would take care of your knee."

Riza stiffens, and then continues kneading the dough. It's not even dawn, and the kitchen is supposed to be hers and hers alone, this early in the morning.

"I have been, Mr. Mustang."

"It doesn't look like it."

"Breakfast will be ready soon, Mr. Mustang," Riza utters. "I will bring it to your study."

He grunts, shakes his head, and leaves without another word.

(She _wanted_ to be alone, right? That's why she asked. She had wanted him to leave. Why had this time, one of her father's boys had listened to her? Why is there suddenly a pit at the bottom of her stomach, an ache in her chest? Why does she want him to make her sit down, unwrap her bandage, and make it all stop hurting? )

(At night, unable to sleep, there's a knock on her door. She limps over and opens it slowly, only to no one and nothing except for a small bottle.

On it is a note.

 _Ointment from the doctor's. For you._

She's never had someone give her something, before. Ever. And she doesn't know how to feel, or what to say.)

"My name is Riza. Riza Hawkeye."

The light from the candle flickers across his face, but she can clearly see Mr. Mustang smile, and she thinks that it's so beautiful. "Hello, Riza. Would you like me to call you Riza or Miss Hawkeye?"

"Miss Hawkeye."

"Very well." He holds out a hand. "Maybe we could be friends, Miss Hawkeye?"

She takes his hand, shakes it. Allows herself to give him a small smile, and says, "Maybe."

Maybe.

"Lieutenant, I _don't_ want to go outside."

"And why not, sir?"

He rubs his eyes with his fingers, and she stares at his bandaged hands, wanting to take them in her own, unwrap them, and make it all stop hurting.

If only.

"Come on, Roy." Riza murmurs. "Just for a little while. Hayate misses you."

He blinks, eyes wide and focusing on the space left of her. "Are you seriously using your dog to get me to come with you? And did you just call me _Roy_?"

He smiles, and she's reminded once again how beautiful it is.

"Does this mean I get call you Riza now?"

"Not a chance, sir."

He laughs, shaking his head. He pulls back the covers of his bed, sits on the side.

And Roy reaches out to her, and she reaches out to him, and together they walk out of the room, of the building, and into the light.


	3. fire

She's on fire.

Clutching the sheets in her hands, gritting her teeth and clenching her jaw, Riza tries to imagine she's anywhere but here, feeling anything but this. She's on fire, and it takes everything she has not to scream, not to cry.

(it's not like she has anyone she could scream for, after all.)

For three days she had laid there with her face pressed onto her pillow, stomach pressed onto the bed. She had stayed, in agony, as he took to her back with a needle dipped in black and red. For three days she had allowed him to etch words and images into her skin that she could not, and would ever, understand.

 _This is necessary, my daughter. You_ must _protect my research_. He had murmured gently on the second day, one hand touching her back as the other hand struck again and again with the needle.

 _Father stop it please,_ she had whimpered back _. It hurts please I don't want it Papa stop—_

 _I cannot stop. My research is valuable. Precious. Important. It is important enough that this must happen, and that should be enough for you. Now, hush, girl. There is more that needs to be done._

So, she allows him to give her a scar in the form of a tattoo, spilling across her skin in black and red strokes.

And Riza thinks that maybe this could be the thing that makes him love her.

Everyone she's ever loved, who's ever loved her, has left. Her mother, who she doesn't think she can even remember. Mr. Mustang, who she doesn't think she can even forget.

Father is the only one who hasn't left, and that means something— doesn't it? Maybe letting him make her on fire will make him love her. Finally, love her. The way it's supposed to be.

 _Do you have parents, Mr. Mustang?_

 _I did. Once. I don't remember them though, they died when I was small. Aunt Chris looks after me now._

Riza paused. _Does she love you?_

Mr. Mustang gave her a look that makes her look down, and she stared at a stain on the wooden floor.

 _Yes, she does._

 _And you love her?_

 _Yes, I do._

 _Well, I love my father._ She had replied quickly. _And he loves me._

… _I'm sure._ He had said, but Mr. Mustang had sounded like he believed anything but.

This is what Riza Hawkeye so desperately wants to be the truth, lying there, sweating and shivering and _burning_.

That she loves her father, and he will love her back.

The sun sets, and with it comes a third sleepless night. Riza keeps her breathing steady as the burning continues, and when the door creaks open, she squeezes her eyes shut. There are footsteps, and then the groan of the bed as someone sits on the edge.

Someone, she thinks, as if there's nobody else it could be. As if it's the ghost of her mother, with gentle hands, could lay beside her and stroke her hair and hold her close. As if Mr. Mustang, with dark warm eyes and a kind smile, didn't actually go away, and is here to help her stop burning.

"So beautiful," Father exhales. If she already stings from the pain, Riza doesn't know what she can possibly call his voice as she listens to his words. "It must hurt, my dear. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"It's okay, Papa." She whispers.

"You are now in possession of my greatest accomplishment," he says. "Take care of it."

He stands up, leaves, and leaves her realizing a different kind of Truth—

He didn't love her then, and he doesn't love her now. He only loves her _back_.

She lets go, and allows herself to cry.


End file.
